


The Triumph of Time

by blackkat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Fake-Out Makeout, Family, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Obito is Sir Not Conscious In This Fic, Romance, Time Loop, Which is one of the things being fixed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 13:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13548444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The first person Kakashi meets when he staggers out of the house, covered in blood, is Uchiha Obito.





	The Triumph of Time

The first person Kakashi meets when he staggers out of the house, covered in blood, is Uchiha Obito.

(It almost doesn’t happen that way, Obito almost takes the road through the village because it’s shorter but there's a patch of wildflowers that grow along this path and that sweet old lady by the river just lost her daughter, and—)

The second person is Orochimaru, arms full of scrolls, one held open and draped across the others so he can read as he walks. The seal traced across the paper glitters dully, for reasons he can't name, but it’s of Uzushio without a doubt, something strange and wonderful and _intriguing_ and he can't put it out of his mind.

(It almost didn’t happen that way either, Orochimaru almost took a mission because the village looms empty and hostile without his team, he almost went to Danzō and asked for a task but then a squad returned with bags upon bags of scrolls and Orochimaru just _happened_ to catch wind of it before they could vanish into the depths of the library, and—)

Kakashi trips, collapses to his knees between them. The only image in his head is his father’s body, so still, the blood still seeping. Moonlight like prison bars, the sword, the twisted look of pain on his face. Dead, and Kakashi can't breathe, can't think, can't even _stand_. There's red soaked into his clothes, his hair, coating his hands. He tried tried tried to stop the bleeding but he’s not a medic and he _couldn’t_ —

(Somewhere behind him, sprawled out on cool wood, pale lashes flutter. Not even a full breath, but it slides into laboring lungs, rasps out. A second doesn’t come, and a faltering heart beats, beats, beats—)

Obito takes one look at Kakashi and thinks that this boy, cool and standoffish but awkwardly kind when no one else but Rin even tries to be, is dying in front of him. There's more blood than he’s ever seen before, and grey eyes are glazed. For one fractured, stuttering heartbeat Obito thinks of Kakashi the last time he saw him, running to meet his father as Obito lingered on the Academy steps. Kakashi’s graduated since, moved on, but he’s _dying_ and Obito makes some horrified, desperate sound as he steps forward.

With a shuddering, shifting _jolt_ black eyes shift and slide to spinning red, then twist. Black pinwheels, spinning lazily, and chakra surges, harsh and heavy and too much to bear. In an instant Obito loses control, eyes rolling back in his head as he collapses.

On Kakashi’s other side, startled still, Orochimaru lets the seal slip just a little, and the dark lines catch the edge of newly transformed chakra and _burn_.

There's a wash of dark brilliance, like black diamond in the sunlight. It sweeps out across the quiet road, spins across four bodies and sweeps them up in its tide, and crashes back down into absolute blackness.

 

 

Sakumo opens his eyes to birdsong and sunlight, and for a moment he can't quite comprehend where he is. His bedroom window faces north, and the light in his eyes and on his face is the painfully brilliant rays of breaking dawn. Underneath him is cool wood, uncomfortable against a body battered by years of a shinobi’s life. There's a sword in his hand, hilt heavy, and the weight of bitter conviction on his tongue

 _I died_ , he thinks, and a shudder of horror traces through him. Panic is the next response, a horrified sort of realization that he got up the courage to make things better once, only to have it come to _nothing_. Will he really be able to do it again?

Somewhere distant, there's a loud crash. Sakumo jolts before he can help it, instincts overwhelming the painful weariness that’s settled into his bones, and he’s on his feet in an instant, tantō coming up. _Enemy_ , he thinks, because there have been plenty of them these last few months, coming for him when they know he’s weak, without the support of his village. Braces himself, even though it’s useless, even though he’s been failing the simplest missions since—

The door flies open, and Kakashi staggers in, wild-eyed in a way Sakumo has never seen before.

“ _Dad_ ,” he says sharply, desperately, like it’s a wonder Sakumo is here at all.

( _I died_ , he thinks. _I died, I died, I died. So why am I_ here _?_ )

“Kakashi,” Sakumo answers, realizes he’s still holding his sword up and ready, and carefully slides it back into its sheath. Looks up again, and tries for a smile despite the confusion and tense sort of horror still winding tighter and tighter in his chest. It’s morning again, but he’s alive. Was the whole day he just lived a fever dream? A nightmare, as he gathered his conviction? Gods, that’s such an incredibly cruel idea, but—clearly that’s what happened. Kakashi is dressed for work with his genin team, hitai-ate on. He looks like he’s had a bad dream, and maybe that’s all it was.

“Dad,” Kakashi repeats, trailing off like he doesn’t know what to add. Wide eyes are still fixed on Sakumo, and his hand is white-knuckled around the doorframe.

Too easy to get lost in his thoughts. Sakumo drags himself under control, and raises an easy brow at his son. “Should I say your name again, or do you know it by now?” he asks, makes his tone as light as he can.

His fingers want to linger on the hilt of his sword, but he refuses to let them. Once Kakashi leaves. Only then. He had the courage once before. He can muster it up again, in the name of restoring their family’s honor.

Kakashi hesitates for another moment, and then says, “I—sorry. Have a good day, Dad.”

Sakumo tries to smile, hopes it doesn’t look as terrified as it feels. “You too, Kakashi. Stay safe.”

Still looking faintly confused, Kakashi casts one more look at him, then ducks out of the doorway. Sakumo listens to the faint sound of his steps, rapid on the wooden floor, and then the thump of the door closing. He lets his eyes drift shut, and takes a steadying breath.

He waited, in his dream. Steeled himself through a day of whispers and dark looks and rumors of war.

This time, he thinks, and closes his hand around his sword. This time it will be different. He doesn’t need anything but their family’s honor restored, a way out of this spiral of shame that gets deeper every day. It’s starting to effect Kakashi, and Sakumo can't bear the thought of his son suffering because of his shame.

What is courage, in the face of that?

He draws his sword again, doesn’t look at the play of light on the blade. Doesn’t let his hands tremble as—

 

 

Kakashi opens his eyes to the dirt of the road, _again_. Instantly, horror leaps through him, a surge of awareness that _this already happened._ He found his father’s body, and then he woke up and Sakumo was _alive_ and he left and he woke up _another time_ —

He scrambles to his feet, not even pausing to look at the other bodies in the road, bolts back towards the house as fast as his feet can carry him. The crash of the door slamming open doesn’t even make him pause, and he hurls himself around the corner. His father was in the living room, and that was _wrong_ because when Kakashi woke up the first time, a morning ago, a _lifetime_ ago, his father had been in the garden watching the sunrise. Kakashi _remembers_.

This time, Sakumo isn’t standing in the middle of the floor, tantō out. He’s slumped underneath the window, fingers knotted in his hair, breath coming in great rough heaves like he’s trying not to cry.

Kakashi has never heard anything more chilling. His father is Konoha's White Fang. He _doesn’t_ cry. Not ever.

“Dad?” he asks, and wants to curse himself when it wavers.

There's a long, long pause. Sakumo looks up, and the smile he’s wearing is ghastly, horrifying. “Kakashi,” he rasps. “What are you doing back so soon?”

Kakashi can't help the way his eyes drift from his father to the bared blade lying on the floor beside him, and it feels like the worst sort of déjà vu, insidious and unsettling. He just saw that sword covered in blood, moonlight like prison bars, his father’s body on the ground as he tried tried _tried_ to stop the bleeding.

He woke up and woke up again and _what if_ it wasn’t just some strange hallucination or miscast genjutsu, what if—

“I'm not going to training with my team today,” he says, and Minato will understand when Kakashi tells him. He _will_ , because he always looks so sad when he hears the whispers in the village. “We should train. Just the two of us.”

Sakumo's eyes widen, like it’s a _surprise_ that Kakashi wants to spend time with him. “You can't—you can't just decide that, Kakashi,” he tries. “Namikaze planned for a full team today, not—”

The rude sound escapes before Kakashi can quite help it, but it’s fine, it is, his heartbeat is slowing now. It’s easier to look at his father in the morning sun and not think of blood and still bodies and swords covered in blood. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, knows it sounds stubborn and bratty and just doesn’t _care_. “I want to stay with _you_.”

Sakumo looks—Kakashi’s mind shies away from the word gutted—entirely taken aback by that declaration. “Kakashi,” he tries. “You're a shinobi now. You can't just—”

“Please,” Kakashi says, and it’s hard to get out, but it’s even harder not to say it.

For a long moment, Sakumo stares at him, and then he closes his eyes.

“No,” he says quietly. “Kakashi, you have a _duty_. Go meet your team.”

It feels—bewildering. Painful. A little like being kicked in the chest, and Kakashi takes a step back before he can help it. “Duty?” he repeats through numb lips. “Duty is why you're like _this_!”

He doesn’t mean to say the words, but they slip out anyway. Doesn’t mean to give away the thoughts that been spinning in his head for _weeks_ now, watching his once-proud father shrink in on himself a bit more each day. But—

There's a war coming, and people saying that if Kakashi’s father had just _done his duty_ , it would still be years off, or maybe not coming at all. Kakashi can't _stand_ it, not anymore. Not when Sakumo still speaks of it like it’s the greatest thing in a shinobi’s life.

Because he’s watching, he can see the impact of the words, how they strike home. Can see the way Sakumo's face crumples, and he turns away, one hand closing convulsively over the hilt of his sword. He walks out of the room, not looking back, and Kakashi can hear the door slam, the sound of his steps on the stairs down into the garden.

 _I didn’t mean it,_ he wants to say, but that’s never going to be enough. And it _hurts_ , makes him bolt for the door. He flashes past a figure in the road without pausing, runs and runs and runs without stopping, until his feet ache and his lungs burn and—

Darkness crashes down around him the moment he hits the edge of the training ground.

 

 

Orochimaru opens his eyes to blue sky above and hard dirt under his back, and thinks with no small amount of venom, _Again?_

In front of him, there's a wild, desperate sound, and the Hatake child staggers up to his feet, sends one wild-eyed look at the house Orochimaru saw him staggering out of, and then turns and runs. He looks like he’s seen a ghost, and Orochimaru can't quite blame him. This is the exact same position he’s woken up in twice already, and it’s becoming tiresome.

With a grimace, he hauls himself to his feet, casts a despairing look at his scattered scrolls, and reluctantly decides that they're a secondary concern in this whole mess. More pressing is the other body in the road, the one Hatake nearly tripped over when he bolted. One of the causes of this, Orochimaru thinks critically, stooping over the still body of the Uchiha boy. He’s never witnessed the activation of the Sharingan before, let alone a transformation like that—helped along, no doubt, by the Uzumaki seals, but still impressive enough on its own.

Impressive enough to land Orochimaru back in this exact position on the road twice already, even though he had been halfway to the hospital the first time and a quarter of the way to the Hokage the second time.

Unlike Hatake and Orochimaru himself, the Uchiha boy isn’t stirring. Chakra exhaustion, likely, Orochimaru judges, tipping his head with careful fingers. From what he knows of it, the Sharingan is a chakra-heavy dojutsu, unlike the Byakugan. The boy can't be more then seven, chakra pathways still developing, so it’s no wonder he’s so deeply unconscious.

Even though he has no idea how long it will be before he’s waking up on the ground again—because the fact that it happened twice already, in a relatively short amount of time, says that it likely will again—Orochimaru picks the boy up in his arms and contemplates the fastest way back to his lab. Accepting Danzō’s offer to join Root will have to wait; this is far more interesting a distraction, and far more pertinent.

But—

He pauses again, just as he did the last two times, and glances towards the house the Hatake boy emerged from before the incident. Still and silent, just like before, but that was most certainly blood the boy was covered in when he burst into the street. Not his own, either, because he wasn’t moving like someone injured. Someone else’s, then, and Orochimaru thinks he might have some idea whose it was.

It’s morning now, rather than late evening. Another day, or possibly the same one—Orochimaru remembers that cloud formation on the southern horizon, because he watched it as he drank his tea on his porch. Statistically, it’s quite unlikely that another cloud would take the exact same form at the same time on two different days, so—logic says this is the same day, repeated. It’s not the strangest application of space-time jutsu Orochimaru has ever encountered, just…unexpected.

“I'm fairly certain,” he tells the Uchiha boy, “that that seal wasn’t anything related to space-time. Which would imply that your eyes are what caused this, though I can't recall any particular lore on the Sharingan developing this way.”

The boy doesn’t so much as stir. His breathing is a bit more shallow than normal, and he looks…pale. Drained. Orochimaru presses a finger against the pulse in his throat and frowns a little. Weak, if steady, and at least it doesn’t seem to be fading.

His eyes drift, again, to the quiet house, and he takes one step, still undecided but—

 

 

Sakumo opens his eyes to birdsong and sunlight, and sucks in a startled breath. _Again_ , he thinks, bewildered, and pushes to sit up. Drags a hand over his face, and tries to get his spinning head to slow enough that he can make sense of all of this. The same position, the same birdsong, the same drift of sunlight, and it _shouldn’t_ be, but this is the fourth time now and he _doesn’t understand_.

 _I died_ , he thinks, and it’s almost indignant. A protest, because this is the _same moment_ he just lived through, looped back on itself, and Sakumo can't understand how or _why_. It started with that death that was supposed to be final, a moment of grim resignation in the darkness and the wild, desperate hope that Kakashi would forgive him, but—that can't have been the cause. There's nothing to Sakumo anymore, no weight, no honor, no dignity. He’s a failed shinobi who catapulted his village straight to war, and—

Somewhere distant, there's a loud crash. Someone kicked the door, Sakumo thinks, and pushes to his feet, grabbing for his tantō automatically. He opens his mouth, ready to remind Kakashi that that’s not how they treat their ancestral home, but unlike the first two times it’s not Kakashi who steps around the corner.

Or, well, it _is_ , but somehow Sakumo doesn’t think that Kakashi has much say in the matter, given that he’s dangling from the Snake Sannin’s grip by his collar, for all the world like a grumpy kitten getting dragged back home.

Entirely confused, Sakumo raises a brow at his son, slumped indignantly in the jounin’s hold with his arms crossed over his chest, and then lets his gaze slide to Orochimaru, who looks unbothered to be supporting Kakashi’s full weight off the ground with one arm. He’s holding another child, too, one Sakumo is sure he saw at the Academy before Kakashi graduated. An Uchiha boy, unconscious and still, and it’s enough like an attack would be that Sakumo steps forward automatically, grip tensing on his sword.

“Orochimaru?” he asks, looking from the Uchiha boy to the other nin.

With a sound of faintly derisive amusement, Orochimaru drops Kakashi onto his feet, then steps around him to settle the Uchiha boy against the wall. Right under the window, and Sakumo can't help but wince at the memory of blood on his hands, staining the ground there.

Judging by the look on Kakashi’s face, he might not be the only one who remembers and keeps doubling back through time.

With deft hands, Orochimaru checks the boy’s pulse, then rises to his feet, smooth and oddly boneless in a way humans usually aren’t. “Hatake,” he returns. “This morning is getting rather repetitive, don’t you think?”

It could mean anything at all, but it doesn’t. Sakumo's breath catches, and he looks from Orochimaru to Kakashi. Kakashi won't look at him, but his face is set into unhappy, grief-stricken likes in a way Sakumo has never seen before.

“Repetitive,” he echoes, and then swallows hard, dragging a hand over his hair. “You could say that. Four times?”

“By my count,” Orochimaru agrees, turning to him, and there's a light in golden eyes that’s something like fervor. “It’s _fascinating_. A section of looped time, caused by the intersection of an Uzumaki seal and the awakening of the Sharingan in its final recorded stage.”

“Obito doesn’t _have_ the Sharingan,” Kakashi bursts out, before Sakumo can so much as start to form a response. “He was last in the Academy because he could never do anything right and he _didn’t have the Sharingan._ ”

Sakumo bites back a sigh. It’s like Dai’s son all over again—Kakashi is quick to judge and then act on those assumptions, and while Sakumo has been trying to break him of the habit Kakashi is just so _smart_ in comparison to others his age that he doesn’t quite seem to get it.

“Kakashi,” he starts, knows it’s already too late when Kakashi bristles automatically.

A snort breaks the tension before the moment can devolve. “Of course he didn’t have the Sharingan,” Orochimaru says dismissively. “He’s not even a genin yet. There was no way to trigger its evolution until he saw _you_. I would assume he thought you were the one who was bleeding.”

Nausea twists in Sakumo's stomach. He can't—there's no memory from after he set the sword against his skin, but what Orochimaru’s words _imply_ —

“Kakashi,” he starts again, and the word wavers so much it nearly shatters in his mouth.

Kakashi still doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes turned away and focused deeper into the house. He doesn’t answer, either, but Orochimaru makes a soft sound that could be either interest or condemnation and asks, “A samurai’s death? How noble.”

Sakumo flinches, and Kakashi makes a sound like he’s just been hit. “ _Noble_?” he demands, rounding on Orochimaru, and for a moment Sakumo can see his mother’s fierceness in him. She was always one to go straight for the throat, and Kakashi inherited far more from her than he did Sakumo.

But Orochimaru doesn’t flinch. Golden eyes meet Kakashi’s grey and hold, intent and somehow chiding. “If you truly believe that _any_ death can be noble,” Orochimaru says coolly, “you haven’t been a shinobi long enough.”

Sakumo bites his lip so hard it almost bleeds, looks at the window and the boy underneath it so he doesn’t have to look at his son. He was—it wasn’t supposed to be _noble_ , it was meant to be…fair. A way to undo the dishonor he had brought to his clan, his family. A way to end things, so that Kakashi didn’t have to grow up in the shadow of the whispers that have dogged his step for months now.

The words seem to calm Kakashi, if only a little. His shoulders go down, and he looks away again. “I found—” he starts, and chokes, unable to say it. It feels like being run through, hearing that, and Sakumo reaches for him automatically, but Kakashi steps out of the way, and says to Orochimaru, “What makes it keep resetting?”

Humming lightly, Orochimaru tips his head, but his gaze is on Sakumo alone, heavy and sharp all at once. “Death,” he says lightly. “Or physical distance. I would assume as much, at least. Only the three of us who were in close proximity to the boy’s chakra are stuck, so it would be logical to say we’re the ones sustaining the technique. Like the seals supporting a barrier. Take one away and the whole thing crumples in on itself.”

“The village could be—” Sakumo starts, and it’s a thread of worry pulled tight in his chest. If Konoha as a whole is stuck, it will leave them vulnerable, especially with Suna and Iwa—

“It’s not,” Kakashi says quietly. “No one else seems to have noticed anything. I went—I made it to the village, and no one looked alarmed.”

Orochimaru inclines his head. “Only the three of us are aware of looping back,” he says. “I noticed as much on my way to the hospital, and then to the Hokage's office.”

This is all—too much. Hard to bear. Sakumo takes three steps back to brace himself against the wall, rubbing a hand over his face. He was supposed to change things. To _fix_ them. Enough months spent failing the village he’s always loved, botching even the simplest missions, shaming his son who shouldn’t have to bear the weight of a father who might as well be a traitor. He just—

He wanted it to _end_ , and now he doesn’t even have that.

There's a long moment of silence that Sakumo can't bring himself to break, and the Orochimaru says lightly, “Kakashi, would you take the boy out into the garden? That should be close enough that we don’t all end up where we started. The more natural chakra there is around him, the faster he’ll recover.”

Orochimaru had a genin team, Sakumo remembers belatedly. One with the Shodaime’s grandson on it, even. It stands to reason that he wouldn’t have been assigned as a jounin instructor without at least some skill at managing children, regardless of the tragic end. Giving Kakashi a task right now, one with a clear goal and a positive outcome, is the best thing for him, and if Sakumo were thinking clearly he might have tried it himself. Unsuccessfully, because Kakashi would likely refuse to take any sort of direction from him right now, but…it’s a good tactic.

“All right,” Kakashi says finally, only a little grudging, and there's a rustle of cloth and a grunt of effort. A moment later steps cross the porch, then fall silent again, and Sakumo has to wonder grimly at the relief that being out of his son’s presence brings.

“Humans are such fragile things,” Orochimaru says into the hush, and a hand settles over Sakumo's where it’s still wrapped around the tantō’s hilt. The fingers squeeze, and Sakumo doesn’t hesitate to surrender the weapon, almost glad to have the choice it represents taken away from him. He’s so _tired_.

“Kakashi found me,” he says quietly, and wants to cry, a little. He’d thought—Kakashi had a mission. D-rank, but it took him out of the village for at least three days, and Sakumo had thought that Dai would be the one, or Jiraiya—

Orochimaru makes a sound of acknowledgement. “The cruelest possible thing you could have done to that child,” he murmurs, like the words aren’t weapons. “But…understandable, in light of the situation.”

Some strange mix of guilt and relief chokes Sakumo, and he digs a hand into his hair, pulling until it hurts. “I just—” he starts wearily, but there are too many ways to finish and he can't figure out which is the most pressing.

The silence lingers again, but this time it’s thoughtful, quiet. Sakumo opens his eyes to see Orochimaru settle against the wall beside him, long, pale fingers running over the length of the tantō’s blade as he weighs his words. He may as well be a ghost in the shadows, eerily pale except for the fall of his dark hair, and Sakumo just—aches. Not for Orochimaru in particular, but for some kind touch, some bit of closeness. It won't happen, because he’s the next best thing to a traitor, weak and worthless, but—

A touch, instead of a cold look, feels like it could be everything right now.

Orochimaru doesn’t, though. Doesn’t even look at him, but at the sword in his hand instead, and his mouth is tight. There's a distance in his eyes that speaks of dark memories, long nights spent sleepless, and Sakumo wants to reach out, has to curl his fingers into a fist to keep from doing so. Touch won't be welcome, and he should know that. _Does_ know that, but…it’s hard to make himself remember sometimes.

And then there's a shout, a name, full of alarm. Instantly, Orochimaru is off the wall and moving, Sakumo half a beat behind him. They hit the edge of the porch at nearly the same time, just enough time to see Obito on the grass, Kakashi with a kunai drawn. A shinobi in black with a white mask is in the trees, eyes turned towards them, and in a whirl he vanishes. With a sound of leashed fury Orochimaru launches himself after the stranger, a cyclone of spinning leaves sweeping up around him before he’s gone. Sakumo aborts his leap, dropping back to the ground beside his son instead, and there's a pulse like adrenaline in his veins, something besides the dragging guilt he’s felt for so long, even on missions. His sword is still in Orochimaru’s possession, but it’s fine, because Kakashi tosses him another kunai and he catches it instead of fumbling.

“He was near the bedroom window,” Kakashi says unhappily, grimace only just visible over the edge of his scarf. “I think I surprised him.”

It wouldn’t be the first assassin sent after him, Sakumo knows, but that looked like a _Konoha_ ANBU’s mask, and that was definitely a Konoha-style shunshin. Why would a Konoha Black Ops member be lurking outside of his bedroom? It doesn’t make _sense_ —

Darkness drops like a drowning wave, sweeping them underneath its tide.

 

 

Kakashi opens his eyes to the sound of cursing, quiet but vehement, and the sharp ache of stones jamming into skin that’s already gaining bruises. He doesn’t bother to groan as he heaves himself to his feet, staggering a step under the disorientation, and shakes his head hard to clear it.

Same slanted sunlight, same empty road. For a moment terror bolts through his chest, because what if this time he’s alone, what if this time—

The front door flies open, and Sakumo hurries down the steps. He’s not carrying a sword, and a single glance over shows that Orochimaru has it, still bare but this time bloodied along one edge. Orochimaru looks _angry_ , in a way Kakashi’s never actually seen before, no matter how many times Jiraiya hangs all over him and teases him. Golden eyes burn with the promise of murder, and his killing intent is tightly leashed but even the very edge of it is enough to make every hair on the back of Kakashi’s neck rise.

“Kakashi,” Sakumo says with relief, a hand steadying Kakashi’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He’s not looking at his sword like he’s mentally judging the best angle to apply it to himself, and in light of that Kakashi is practically transcendent. “Fine,” he says, and doesn’t push the hand away even though he doesn’t really need it. Then, to Orochimaru, he asks, “Did you get him?”

“I did not,” Orochimaru says, as precise as a scalpel, and makes to rise. Before he can, though, Sakumo steps around Kakashi and offers him a hand. Stopping short, Orochimaru blinks at the hand, then up at Sakumo's face, and then almost carefully reaches out to set his fingers against Sakumo's.

Not seeming to notice the hesitation, Sakumo pulls him to his feet and lets go. “Well,” he says, and it’s on the edge of grim. “I'm fairly certain he won't see you coming this time.”

Orochimaru pauses again, eyes narrowed at Sakumo like he’s waiting for the follow-up. When none comes, though, he frowns faintly, looking Sakumo over closely, and says, “I suppose not. He didn’t seem overly interested in talking last time, however.”

A little surprised, Kakashi looks the snake summoner over, scanning the fall of pale blue robes, and his eyes widen when he catches sight of dark red. “He _got_ you?” he demands.

“What?” Sakumo sounds the next best thing to alarmed, and he reaches out, grabbing Orochimaru by the elbow and turning him a step to the side. Instantly, Kakashi opens his mouth, ready to warn his father not to lose a hand—because manhandling a dangerous and widely feared jounin sounds like a _bad idea_ even to him, and Kakashi’s only been out of the Academy for two years—but…

Orochimaru doesn’t lash out, doesn’t stab Sakumo in the throat with the bloody sword he’s already holding. Just hisses in mild irritation, letting Sakumo pull his robe out to see the length of the slash over his ribs. “I'm quite well,” he says impatiently. “The wound vanished when we looped back. Hands _off_ , mutt.”

Kakashi bristles, because manhandling or not that’s his _father_. Before he can even open his mouth, though, Sakumo just—

He _laughs_ , and Kakashi freezes, because he can remember the last time he heard that sound. Sakumo had been leaving for his mission near the Suna border, and Kakashi had told him to come back safe. Since then he hasn’t, but—this is enough to break that streak. Rusty, still a little tired, but it’s a _laugh._

“Mutt?” he repeats, sounding bemused. “Well, that’s not as bad as some names, I suppose. Certainly better than what I've been hearing lately.”

Orochimaru scoffs, gripping Sakumo's wrist between two fingers and pointedly prying it off of his clothes. “Fools,” he says dismissively. “It takes far more than one man to start a war.”

Hearing that is like a punch in the chest, almost enough to make Kakashi rock back on his heels in surprise. It _shouldn’t_ be, because _that’s logic_ and Kakashi is so, so sick of all the idiots claiming—

But Orochimaru has gone still, eyes suddenly narrowed, gaze on the sword in his hand. “That mask he was wearing,” he says abruptly. “Did either of you see it clearly?”

“It was unmarked,” Kakashi says immediately, because this at least he’s sure of. “But it had horns. Two thin ones.”

“Root,” Orochimaru says grimly, and turns.

Before he can leap for the garden, Sakumo steps in front of him, catching him by the shoulder. “What?” he asks. “As in _Danzō’s_ Root?”

Orochimaru waves a dismissive hand. “I've seen him in the company of a shinobi wearing that mask, but it’s been retired from regular ANBU rotation. It is most certainly a Root member. But what have you done lately that would warrant attention from Root?”

Sakumo is frowning, confused but also wary. “Proved myself a threat to Konoha?” he suggests, a thread of grim humor in his voice. “Failed all of my mission?”

“Statistically, unless you had lost all of your skills, the number is improbable,” Orochimaru says distractedly, and Kakashi can see his thoughts are a thousand miles away right now. “Not impossible, but your skills outstrip mine, and I cannot imagine you would fall so far so fast.”

Kakashi doesn’t need a map to see where this tangent is headed. “ _Sabotage_?” he demands incredulously. “You think someone is _sabotaging_ my dad’s missions?” He glances at his father, but Sakumo looks like Orochimaru just clubbed him over the head with something heavy.

“Orochimaru,” he starts, already shaking his head, “that’s not—it isn’t likely—”

But…Kakashi can see it. Kakashi can see _all_ of it, and it’s more horrifying every second. “What’s not _likely_ ,” he says, with a world’s worth of venom in the words, “is everyone suddenly hating you! Missions fail all the time, and Suna’s hated Konoha forever. Why is this time so different?”

“No one wants a war,” Sakumo says stubbornly. “The loss of life—”

“Might be seen as secondary to the power Konoha can gain if we come out the victor,” Orochimaru cuts in, and his eyes fall to Kakashi. Kakashi stares back, entirely in agreement with what he can see there, and Orochimaru’s lips twist into a bitter half-smile. “Of course, you're the strongest of the village’s jounin, and one of the most experienced. If you led us through the war, you would likely secure the position of Yondaime when we emerged from it, unless something was done to discredit you.”

Kakashi feels sick to his stomach with the realization, and maybe it’s reaching, extrapolating too far based on flimsy evidence and happenstance, but it _feels_ right. There's nothing that makes sense about any of this, and all of his dad’s closest friends are on long missions, and everyone is spreading rumors even though what his dad did is _what a Konoha shinobi should do_ , and—

“It can't be,” Sakumo says, almost helplessly, but he’s staring at Orochimaru. “There's no way. I _failed_. That’s not—you can't blame it on someone else.”

Orochimaru scoffs. “Of course not,” he counters. “But the opportunity that was presented in the aftermath—someone took advantage of it, and I know Shimura Danzō. If it wasn’t him, I’ll swallow Kusanagi whole.”

Sakumo blinks, flicks a glance at Orochimaru’s mouth that even Kakashi can't miss, and pauses like he’s groping for words.

That’s _gross_ , and Kakashi would like to register a strident objection to the implications raised. With a loud groan, he determinedly puts his back to both of them, heading for where Obito is still collapsed in the dirt. It’s possible he’s a little more gentle in turning him over than he would have been any time before, but—

Obito saved his father’s life. Just like with Orochimaru’s slash, the wound that killed him vanished when they reappeared in this morning, and Kakashi isn’t going to forget that. Loud, crybaby Obito, who always took what Kakashi did as a personal challenge and always smiled no matter what, saved his father. It seems impossible, but it _happened_.

He gets an arm around Obito's back and pulls him up, and then risks a glance over his shoulder. “If you're kissing, _stop_ ,” he says grumpily.

It’s _Orochimaru_ who flushes faintly at that, spinning away with jerky steps to snatch Obito from Kakashi’s hold. “Make yourself useful for once, child,” he snaps. “Gather my scrolls. We need to visit the Hokage, and since we can't separate ourselves we’re all going.”

Kakashi stares at him flatly, for long enough that Orochimaru will know Kakashi is judging him _intensely_ right now, and then pointedly turns to pick up the armful of scrolls scattered across the road. They seem old, like they might crumble under his fingertips, and he tries to be careful as he scoops them up.

“What even _are_ these?” Sakumo asks, crouching down to help him.

“Uzumaki fuinjutsu,” Orochimaru says, and the tone is begrudging but there's still a flush in his cheeks, all too visible against the corpse-pale skin. Kakashi wants to be amused, but he’s mostly just indignant. He’s _seven_ , and they're in the middle of the street. That’s not to place for that kind of thing. “Scrolls recovered from a trader who was hired to take them to Uzushio before the village fell. He didn’t make it in time, but a squad found the scrolls when they were stealing his records for a local noble he stiffed.”

“Impressive timing,” Sakumo says, wryly amused, and glances up. His eyes go wide, and without a sound he lunges, low and fast, with chakra gathering white-hot around one hand.

Orochimaru sees the movement, even as Kakashi’s gaze falls on the dark shape coming up behind him. There's no _time_ , but he leaps too, sees the flash of a sword—

Orochimaru throws Obito into Sakumo, just as a tantō slams through his chest. He gasps, soundless and pained, and one hand comes up to grip the bloody blade. Kakashi can only stare in horror as his legs fold, and the Root shinobi lets him fall, jerking his sword free with a slick-wet sound that makes Kakashi take a step back.

“No,” Sakumo says, breathless in the silence. His grip on Obito tightens, but he doesn’t move, staring in horror at the crumpled figure on the ground. Kakashi can't look away from the Root shinobi, though—those eyes are full of a wild sort of horror, and Kakashi thinks, ‘ _Oh, **oh** ,_’ as he realizes—

Golden eyes slide to blankness, and darkness crashes down over their heads.

 

 

Orochimaru opens his eyes to blue sky above and hard dirt under his back, and thinks with no small amount of relief, _I'm alive. It **worked**._

“—not four, _five_!” a voice is saying, and he turns his head to see a mop of wild silver hair just leaning over him. Kakashi looks like he hit on a breakthrough, full of the same frenetic energy Orochimaru is accustomed to after a successful stint in the lab. Small hands grab Orochimaru’s shoulder, hauling him up to sit, and Orochimaru hisses at the fading echo of an ache in his chest, pushing a hand against his sternum to feel blood-wet robes but whole skin underneath.

“What?” he rasps.

“ _Five_ pillars, not four,” Kakashi repeats impatiently. “The Root shinobi, he must have been close when Obito's Sharingan activated. He’s looping too.”

It takes a long moment for Orochimaru’s brain to catch up, still muzzy from near-death and the certainty that if he looks down he’s going to see a sword driven through his chest. With a self-directed grimace, his pulls his thoughts back into some semblance of order and replays the words. It seems likely; possible at the very least. If the Root agent had _been_ hiding outside Sakumo's window the entire time, it would make sense that he was within range of the chakra that caught them. He might not have heard the explanation Orochimaru offered, but he likely overheard Orochimaru and Kakashi connect the pieces of the plot, and given his loyalty to Danzō—

A whirl of leaves and Sakumo touches down on the road beside him, immediately dropping to one knee. A firm hand catches Orochimaru’s wrist, a strong arm curls behind his shoulders, and then there's a hand in Orochimaru’s hair, breath on his cheek. Part of him wants to lash out, strike like a snake and knock Sakumo away, because his hear is suddenly too loud in his chest, blood too fast in his veins. He can't, though, not when Sakumo's fingers press over the pulse-point in his wrist and there's a breath of pure relief against his skin.

“You're all right?” Sakumo asks insistently, leaning far enough away that Orochimaru can see his face, which is…unhelpful. At least where the pace of his heart and the tightness in his chest are concerned. And really, does this have to feel like _dying_?

There's a reason Orochimaru rarely makes the time to speak to Hatake Sakumo, and it’s not because he hates him.

“Fine,” he says, and gets his feet under himself, forcing himself to stand. Too tempting to stay where he is, but if Kakashi is correct, he can't afford to. “The Root agent—do you have proof?”

Kakashi hesitates, but shakes his head. “A hunch,” he says, pulling a slight face at the words, and Orochimaru almost wants to smile. He used to feel the same way.

“Intuition,” he corrects, because it’s the same thing that Sarutobi used to say to him. “Micro-impressions picked up by the brain that are too quick to register as anything more than an impression. Usually very trustworthy.”

This, at least, eases the scrunch of Kakashi’s eyebrows, and he nods. “He looked…weird, when he stabbed you,” is his verdict.

“Apprehend him?” Sakumo asks, quietly enough that only Orochimaru hears it.

Orochimaru tries not to react to the sound of that low voice in his ear. Jiraiya will never know about this, he swears to himself. At this point all Orochimaru has to do is look in Sakumo's direction and the teasing is endless and insufferable; this will not be added to his stock of ammunition.

“Yes,” he says, and forces himself to focus, to shut away the bothersome parts of being human. There are rather a lot of them. “If we kill him the loop will reset. Beyond that, we need a witness for the Hokage.”

“Clever,” Sakumo says, equal parts amused and steady, and he cups a hand under Orochimaru’s elbow, steering him back towards the house. “Kakashi—”

“I've got Obito,” Kakashi finishes for him, annoyed, but he pulls the other boy up without hesitation. It’s not _quite_ enough to make Orochimaru nostalgic, because Nawaki was always a bright, cheerful boy, but…well. Maybe he hasn’t thought about children as they actually are in a long time, instead of just considering them small shinobi. A failing, perhaps. Kakashi is certainly less objectionable than some adults he knows, though perhaps that simply says something about the company Orochimaru chooses to keep.

“Thank you,” Sakumo says, unbothered by the way Kakashi’s eye-rolling is practically audible. There are still tired lines around his mouth, a weight to his eyes, but his gaze is sharper than it was before, his shoulders straighter. A sideways glance at Orochimaru, and he hesitates, but finally says softly, “We’ll need to take him by surprise, but if he knows that we keep our memories…”

Much harder to do, Orochimaru agrees. He’s seem Root members before, though, stiff and frozen in the shadows behind Danzō like his own private army, always waiting for his signal. How different must it be, to have one on his own, making his own decisions?

For a moment Orochimaru judges angles, lines of sight, what chakra signatures he can feel. Factors it in, judges the distance left to the front steps, and lets his leg buckle underneath himself like he can't bear to stand anymore. Sakumo startles as he goes down, spinning to catch him, but Orochimaru gets a hand in his shirt and drags him down as well so that he lands on his knees. In between their bodies, Orochimaru feeds just a spark of chakra into his summoning tattoo and slumps, one hand landing on the dirt. His billowing sleeve covers the flare of light, and an instant later Sakumo's arms give him just enough space to fall into, like he really is dying.

“Orochimaru!” Sakumo says, just the right note of bewildered surprise, though his eyes are still sharp. He brings a hand up to cup Orochimaru’s cheek, twisting his fingers into Orochimaru’s hair, and as he tips his head forward Orochimaru can see one brow lift just faintly, like a challenge. There's a sound behind them, Kakashi either alarmed or horrified, but Sakumo is shaping hand signs against his spine, hand hidden by the fall of Orochimaru’s deftly arranged hair.

There’s nothing for Orochimaru to do but tip his head back into Sakumo's hold, letting his eyes return the challenge, and one corner of Sakumo's lips curl up, just faintly, accepting it. He leans in, tips his head and lets their mouths slide together, and Orochimaru can't help the sharp breath he takes, the way he presses up into the touch even as he fits his hand to Sakumo's, finishing the last three signs even as they look helpless and distracted.

There's a muffled cry, and the chameleon jutsu vanishes as the shadow Orochimaru has been watching from the corner of his eye goes suddenly still. With a low laugh, victorious and amused, Orochimaru breaks the kiss and lets Sakumo pull him to his feet, then turns to study their handiwork. The Paralysis jutsu is holding, and even if it wasn’t, one of Orochimaru’s larger summons has looped herself around the shinobi’s legs, winding tight. He’s entirely stiff, like he’s wrapped in steel cables, but the blank demon mask is clear.

“Effective,” Sakumo comments, as mild as a spring rain, and pulls his tantō from Orochimaru’s sash.

Orochimaru’s lips are tingling, and he’s as warm and languid as if he’s been lying in the sun. He doesn’t quite press a hand to his mouth to capture the feeling, because he isn’t _actually_ a heroine from one of Jiraiya’s trashy fantasies, but…it’s far more tempting than it probably should be.

“We’ll need him alive,” he reminds Sakumo, because while he doesn’t seem the type to forget it, this entire matter revolves around him personally.

Sakumo casts him a look, but flips the blade around and brings the hilt crashing down on the back of the man’s head. “I don’t kill my fellow shinobi,” he says, and it has the sound of a promise made to himself. “No matter what they’ve done.”

“Does that mean you believe us now?” Kakashi demands, glaring at them both equally. He’s still carrying Obito, but he has a kunai drawn and braced, and looks _most_ displeased with their little diversion.

It was spur of the moment, perhaps, but Orochimaru can't even _begin_ to regret it.

Sakumo sighs a little, eyes dropping to where Orochimaru’s snake is happily winding her way around the shinobi’s body to contain him fully. “Maybe,” he says wryly. “Give me a few days, cub.”

Kakashi harrumphs at the nickname, but boosts Obito a little higher on his shoulder and just says, “Are we going to the Hokage now?”

Orochimaru inclines his head. “If the boy receives a chakra transfusion, it should be enough to deactivate his Sharingan and break the loop permanently,” he says. “I can perform the procedure, but it might be best left to the hospital. My chakra is…abrasive.”

A glancing touch brushes his fingers, and Orochimaru looks up at Sakumo in surprise, only to find a barely-there, faintly crooked smile aimed at him. “Strong,” Sakumo says, and fits their fingers together into a Snake seal.

There's very little that Orochimaru wants more than he wants to kiss him again.

He’s close enough to hear Sakumo's breath catch when he steps just slightly closer, and their linked hands let him feel the tightening grip of callused fingers. Sakumo’s eyes flicker down to his mouth again, and Orochimaru smirks, catches his gaze. Makes it an invitation, and—

“ _No_ ,” Kakashi says loudly, marching past. “Not in the street, Dad, don’t be _embarrassing_.”

Maybe, Orochimaru reflects, he doesn’t actually miss children as much as he had thought he did.

“Kakashi,” Sakumo sighs.

“No,” Kakashi repeats, not bothering to stop. Apparently his desire not to look at them outweighs the hassle of the time loop resetting again. “We’re going to tell the Hokage, and we’re going to _fix this_ , and then we can go home and it will be _fine_.”

He rounds the corner and disappears from sight, and Sakumo shakes his head. He’s smiling, though, and if he still looks tired—well. Some things can't be fixed in an instant. But Orochimaru doesn’t mind the work, as long as the goal is interesting.

“I don’t particularly want to wake up on the floor again,” Sakumo muses, and starts walking, though he still doesn’t let go of Orochimaru’s hand. Just casts a glance back, checking his face, and then smiles again. “Thank you,” he says.

Orochimaru drops his gaze to their joined hands, studying the interlocked fingers. Jiraiya is probably going to find out about this, he thinks, but it’s already verging on resigned. He knows how to win a fight against Jiraiya, so at least there's that.

“As far as mornings go,” he says, and makes his tone light and airy and hardly interested at all, the exact opposite of everything he’s feeling right now, “there have been less interesting ones.”

Sakumo snorts, and tugs him up to walk at his side. “You can say that again,” he says, but the curve of his mouth is soft in the sunshine, and Orochimaru can't bring himself to regret a moment of what’s happened.


End file.
